


When You're Ready

by Irrealia



Series: Thorin Works Through His Issues and Deserves Happiness Dammit [2]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Comfort/Angst, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, LOOK I'M BAD AT GENRES, M/M, Mental Illness, Neurodiversity, Power Bottom Bilbo, Slash, Thorin learns a few things about healthy coping mechanisms and self-talk, depressed people deserve love too, dom!bilbo, fun times with self-loathing, mentions of suicidal urges, sub!Thorin, very gentle D/s
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-19
Updated: 2016-03-24
Packaged: 2018-05-27 15:55:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6290716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Irrealia/pseuds/Irrealia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Wanting Bilbo to stay was surely a covetous, dragonish urge. Really, anything Thorin <i>wanted</i> was probably something he shouldn’t be allowed to have."</p><p>After the Battle of the Five Armies, things can really only go uphill for Thorin. That doesn't mean not still a climb. It's easy to heal the body; it's harder to heal the mind. </p><p>Rating is for Ch. 3.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> [@pangur-pangur](http://pangur-pangur.tumblr.com/) is a super helpful and generous beta, and a lovely person all-round. <3 I owe her a mithril shirt, at the very least.
> 
> You can read this as a continuation/fix-it for [Uncountable Golden Mirrors](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6112615), but you don't have to.

“Who is it, Thorin, who decreed that you should suffer? Who decreed that your crimes were unforgivable? Because it wasn’t me, Thorin. It was never me.”

Thorin looked up from where he was seated, where he had been staring into the fire, seeing and not seeing it. He blinked; flames still seemed to flicker in front of him. But behind the haze of fire burnt into his eyes was Bilbo, in a loose dwarven tunic and a dressing gown over it, looking at him from the doorway of his chambers. He hadn’t heard Bilbo enter, but the hobbit’s stealth wasn’t really what surprised him. 

“The guards have orders not to admit you,” Thorin responded, but it lacked any real bite.

“I know,” said Bilbo, whose eyes were sad and far-away and made of water. “But Dwalin is in charge of them.”

Thorin nodded at that, understanding perfectly that Dwalin _would_ countermand his orders, now that every member of his company had paid the price of excess loyalty to him, each in their own way. The times of unswerving obedience to him were gone, and that was likely just as well.

That was Bilbo’s doing. And that was one of the many reasons why Bilbo shouldn’t be here.

Thorin turned back to the fire and sank more deeply into his chair. He intended it as something of a dismissal, but he heard no noise behind him suggesting that Bilbo had retreated. Given how silently Bilbo had arrived, that probably meant very little. Still, he spoke to the fire, not willing to see whether Bilbo remained.

“We both know what my crimes have been, Bilbo. The war that I caused, and the deaths. The promises I broke. The creature I became. The way I treated you, most faithful of my companions, and the only one willing to do what I _needed_ , even if it wasn’t what I _wanted_.” He took a harsh, ragged breath. “You forgave me, for what happened at the gates, but that was not my only crime against you.”

Thorin’s voice cracked, and he cleared his throat, and then was silent, staring at the fire. His other crimes were countless, and he could barely will himself to think about them, much less speak of them.

“If it’s a question of forgiveness, Thorin, well—there wasn’t ever any question. You are forgiven. You were always forgiven.” Bilbo’s voice was quiet, muffled in the thick air, but it must have been him, for Thorin would never have imagined Bilbo saying such words. He had stayed, then. And he had heard.

Thorin bowed his head. He still couldn’t look.

“And if it’s a question of punishment,” Bilbo continued, soft footfalls now accompanying his speech, “I think you’re doing a better job of it than I ever could.” A small hand came to rest on the back of Thorin’s head, gentle and warm. A tear spotted the hem of Thorin’s tunic as he gazed downward, and he wasn’t entirely certain how it had got there.

There was a long span of silence as Thorin choked on words that he knew but had never spoken. The weight of Bilbo’s hand on the back of his neck steadied him. The heat of Bilbo’s hand chastened him.

“I meant to die,” he said finally, his voice a mere chafing whisper. “And I would have been at peace, knowing I had felled Azog at last, and that I had given everything I could for my people. I was at peace as I ran from the gate, and at peace as I whirled through the battle. I thought, ‘It was for this task that Mahal made me,’ and I was glad knowing I would soon join my kin in his halls.”

Bilbo’s hand stilled, where it had been stroking his hair. Thorin’s arm shot up abruptly, as if to lay his hand over Bilbo’s, but then he stopped, and clasped both hands together in his lap and took a long and shaky breath, and then another, composing himself for what he knew he must say next.

“You would have been my only regret, if I had died. But I should have died twice over, were it possible, for what I did to you. As it was, I had hoped to make my amends with the one death I had to give, to you and to my people.”

A hand touched his cheek, softly wiping away the tears that had fallen there. And then the hand gently turned his face, tilted his chin up, so that his head was cradled between Bilbo’s hands, and he was looking directly up into Bilbo’s bright wet eyes.

“Do you still want to die?” asked Bilbo, with unbearable kindness.

“How are you so unreasonably good?” asked Thorin, who didn’t answer him. “I deserve nothing but your scorn. The way I touched you, Bilbo, the way I profaned the love I bear you….” His voice cracked, again, and this time it broke.

“And you shall have my scorn, Thorin,” remarked Bilbo, his tone light and factual, as if they spoke of dinner or his diary for tomorrow. “You shall have it when you deserve it. But I’ll not scold you for being sick.”

Thorin nodded, weakly, and then flopped his head against Bilbo, resting against his belly, and letting his eyes close. His wounds, though they had been grave, were more or less healed now, but he still tired easily, and in this moment, he was more tired than he had ever thought possible. Bilbo allowed him this liberty and even, in his seemingly infinite mercy, resumed stroking his hands through the long waves of Thorin’s hair, gently smoothing tangles where he found them.

Just as he had given himself over to drifting thoughtlessly in this unforgivable comfort, Bilbo’s voice broke the stillness again.

“I should go to Dale,” said Bilbo. “Bard has extended any number of invitations, so I’m sure he’d be glad to have me. The snow has started to thaw and they’re starting to think about planting. I’m no farmer myself, really, but I think I know at least a little bit about gardening, and anyway it’s not as if Laketown had any farmers either! So I might be a little bit of help to them.” He chattered idly, hands unceasing in their soothing motions, a sorcerer weaving a glamour of normalcy. “So I’ll go to Dale for awhile, I think, and when you’re ready, you can come and find me. I don’t really fancy going back to the Shire just yet,” he added with a soft chuckle. “Not when I’ve finally got a proper taste for adventure! No, I should like to see Dale, and help with the rebuilding.”

Bilbo slowly and carefully set Thorin back to rights in his chair, and pressed a kiss to the top of his head before moving towards the door.

“Come find me,” he repeated, just before he vanished. “When you’re ready.”

Thorin didn’t really know if he ever would be.

\--

Within a day, Bilbo had left the mountain, and ensconced himself in Dale—or so Dwalin reported, having insisted on accompanying Bilbo personally. It took some time for Thorin to really be aware that he was gone, though. He had been abed for so long, healing and unable to tolerate much company, and as soon as that changed, his deep sense of shame had led him to avoid Bilbo as much as possible, had led him to bar Bilbo from his rooms.

But yet he _was_ gone, and the absence of even small encounters with Bilbo began to make Thorin feel curiously disoriented. He would catch a glimpse of something soft and bronze out of the corner of his eye, expecting it to be the top of Bilbo’s head, but always finding something else instead, when he really looked: the glint of firelight on a goblet at dinner. The soft textures of a gilded tapestry hanging to one side.  

Bilbo wrote every other day or so, as he might have predicted (if he had thought about it). His letters were very polite and a little bit dull, but the content wasn’t really the point of them. Thorin read them all, eyes passing blindly over the words themselves but staring at the florid handwriting with all its little faux-elven flourishes. He wanted to be irritated by it, but the irritation would not obey his summons.

He thought about going to Dale.

He thought about not going to Dale.

He thought about writing back, but words seemed too dull a tool for the work.

(Bilbo kept writing anyway. Thorin suspected Balin of replying to most of them on his behalf.)

He thought about thinking.

The worst thing about his sickness ( _gold sickness_ , his mind offered, _dragon sickness_ ) was that he remembered everything perfectly. His thoughts then were not as a fevered dream, ill-formed and blurry. No, everything had made perfect sense. His reasons for refusing the Lakemen had been sound, and his cause, just. He recalled his words and deeds during his sickness as clearly as his words and deeds when he had been well.

The logic that had driven him to declare war on a combined army of men and elves with only twelve dwarrows (and a hobbit) on his side made little sense to him _now_ , to be fair. And _now_ , he believed, his head was clear, and his mind was his own. But so he had thought before, and he had been wrong, and the wages of his sins had been death beyond reckoning. And how was he to know the difference between sickness and health, when, in truth, he had always seemed the same to himself?

He wanted to talk to someone about it, but the thought of explaining a sickness that didn’t feel like anything at all, of trying to articulate what the change felt like, seemed even more broken and hopeless than the thought of responding to Bilbo’s letters.

There was a pile of ten or so of them now, on his desk.

Bilbo seemed to think that  _he_ could tell the difference between the Thorins, and indeed, his actions demonstrated that he would go any lengths to show Thorin the right way forward, when he was lost. If Bilbo were to really stay here, beyond wanting to see Thorin well, beyond wanting to see the mountain restored—

If Bilbo were to stay _with him_ , then perhaps he could rely on Bilbo to tell him when he was the wrong Thorin. But when he thought of what he had done to Bilbo—

And how could he not, when his dreams were haunted by the feeling of flesh and mithril under his fingers, by the shine of gold covered in tears and _sadâz_ —

Wanting Bilbo to stay was surely a covetous, dragonish urge. Really, anything Thorin _wanted_ was probably something he shouldn’t be allowed to have.

He rose early. He slept late, when he slept at all. He trained so hard that Dwalin refused to keep sparring with him. He turned to the forge instead, beating leaves of steel over and over into swirling patterns, strong and lovely, shaping them into a blade that he only realized was hobbit-sized when he was halfway done.

When he’d fitted it with a garnet- and emerald-studded pommel, he sent it to Dale with Bombur, who was handling most of the negotiations around food resources with aplomb, and Fíli, who was watching and learning, and who doubtless wanted to see Bilbo.

For the moment, steel would serve where words would not. _“I would protect you,”_ said the little sword.

Bombur returned bearing a blue glass pipe in a finely carved wooden box, a barrel of tobacco, and a note from Bilbo that read simply “ _Annak dê_.” His written Cirth was as awkward as his Westron was flowing, and Thorin tried to be irritated that Bilbo was somehow teaching himself Khuzdul, but his irritation wouldn’t obey his summons.

He wondered if he was right to doubt himself so for wanting Bilbo with him again, when plainly Bilbo wanted it too. He might suspect himself, but he could never doubt Bilbo again, not after everything.

He thought about going to Dale.

He thought about not going to Dale.

He tried some of the tobacco.

He sent one message to the stables asking them to ready his pony, a second to Dwalin to arrange for guards to go with him, and a third to Balin to help him think up an excuse.

  
“I’m glad you’re going, laddie,” Balin said, and gave him a quiet pat on the shoulder. “Naturally, since Dale’s agricultural pursuits will benefit Erebor as well, you will be curious what Bilbo and Bard have been planning. That’s reason enough for a visit, I wager. Doesn’t need to be anything too complicated.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Neo-Khuzdul Glossary and Notes  
> All Khuzdul used here is based on the works of The Dwarrow Scholar, may their beard grow ever longer. All grammatical mistakes are my own.
> 
> sadâz = “seeds” or “semen.” I am 99% certain that Bilbo and Thorin had sex in Erebor when Thorin was sick. It would have been at a minimum awkward, if not straight-up rapey. (My version of that story lives [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6112615), and yes, Thorin literally comes on the gold, because I have no sense of subtlety.) Thorin doubtless feels really guilty about it, first of all because that would be the appropriate way to feel and he totally should, but also because he’s Thorin and guilt is his engine. 
> 
> Annak dê. = “Come back to me.”


	2. Chapter 2

Dale was not actually far from Erebor—but one or two _ikhazarnâg_ at most from the gates. It was just that Erebor was such a vast world inside, up and down, made of lamplight and forge-fire and polished stone. It was easy for dwarrows to forget there was a world outside, let alone to think about crossing open ground. But Thorin set out on his pony the next morning and did just that. It was properly spring now, and the ground was spotted with awkward little clumps of grass and pale pink trumpet-shaped flowers that heralded him along his journey.

The gates of Dale were open when he arrived, and Bard was waiting for him. His clothes were simple, but of good stuff, and he held himself as proudly as ever he had done. The circlet on his brow, the only mark of his rank, was decorated with delicate etchings depicting the slaying of Smaug—a present from the craftsmen of Erebor. Something about the war over the mountain’s treasure seemed to be keeping both kings from excesses of personal splendour.

“Hail Thorin, son of Thrain, King Under the Mountain!” proclaimed Bard, and the trumpets at the gate punctuated his speech with a ritual flourish. Thorin inclined his head in greeting. “Hail Bard, heir of Girion, Lord of Dale!” he replied, his voice echoing oddly in the discomfiting openness. “I am humbled by your hospitality towards me, and my advisor, Master Baggins. I trust he has served you well?”

“Enter,” said Bard. “And I will show you what we have accomplished together.” And with that Thorin, Dwalin, and all his retinue were ushered into the city, parading together through the wide, repaved streets towards Bard’s halls. When they arrived, their ponies were promptly seen to, and most of Thorin’s guards were left to their own devices to enjoy the city, their presence here mostly a show of status, rather than real protection. Dwalin and a trusted lieutenant still shadowed him though, as Bard led him through the vast and still somewhat crumbling hall to a table spread with food, maps, and various plans.

It was here that Thorin caught his first glimpse of Bilbo in weeks. The hobbit was studying one of the maps intently, a cup of tea held in one hand suspended in mid-air, half-forgotten as he squinted and tilted his head. Bilbo looked absurdly small among the men, but he also looked tanned and plump, his face creased with smiles, and his eyes bright from pleasant company and pleasant labour. His time in Dale had suited him. He was dressed after the fashion of the Lakemen again, but this time, Bard had clearly had something made to a proper size for a hobbit, and lined the coat with much nicer furs.

Looking at him hurt, and for a long moment Thorin doubted the justice of his being here. But a brilliant smile broke over Bilbo’s face when he turned and saw him, and Thorin quietly reminded himself, for the umpteenth time, that he should always, always do what Bilbo said.

“I received your note,” said Thorin quietly. “And so I came, as you requested.”

Bilbo’s expression was plainly pleased and his countenance flushed, but Bard entered the meeting hall just then and, with very little ceremony, he and Bilbo set about explaining the maps and lists and diagrammes to Thorin while they ate a hearty luncheon and washed it down with ale. The plans showed terraced gardens throughout the city, and fields to cultivate outside it. Property was being allocated to the displaced families of Lakemen, and seeds for grains and green things purchased with their share of Erebor’s gold. Thorin was in no position to judge whether the plans were sound or sustainable, so little did he know of farms or gardens. But Bilbo seemed certain it would feed the Lakemen, and Bard knew it would help to resettle them, to give the Lakemen property and industry, homes and food and free honest work in Dale. And Thorin knew enough to defer to their judgement.

“But you will forgive me, your majesty,” said Bard. “It has been a pleasure to show you this work of ours, but I am certain you understand that there are others who require me before the day is done. I trust Master Baggins can entertain you until dinner?”

Thorin nodded. “I am pleased to see the progress of Dale towards restoration and independence, and grateful for the time you have spared me, your majesty,” he replied.

Though they might have spoken more casually, king to king, the ability to stand on the kinds of strict court protocols that he had learnt in his youth had done much to ease Thorin’s interactions with Bard over the last few months, and perhaps Bilbo had helped him here, too. Bard had shown him the plans with real enthusiasm, and had seemed genuinely pleased to receive Thorin’s approbation. Thorin and Bilbo stood respectfully while Bard withdrew with a courteous bow, and the one or two attendants who had also been in the room with him followed suit.

“ _Îmirî_ , _kasamhilîn_ ” Thorin said to Dwalin and the other guard in a low voice; they too bowed and left, although Dwalin raised one eyebrow as he cast a glance back at Thorin and Bilbo from the door. And then, at last, for the first time in over a month, Thorin and Bilbo were alone together.

\-- 

There was a moment of awkward silence that hung in the room as they stood across the table from one another, the air throbbing as in the aftermath of a great bell or gong being struck. Bilbo opened his mouth to fill it with hobbitish pleasantries, but Thorin raised a hand to silence him, and Bilbo obliged, although he gave Thorin a pointed and curious look.

“I have been thinking,” said Thorin. “That I need you to guide me. I have worried that I might lose myself again, that I might not see when gold calls to my heart more loudly than the voices of my kin. You alone have shown yourself willing to do whatever is necessary to keep me true to myself—you alone, of all my friends, of all my companions. I have no right to ask you to stay. I even believe that you should not, and I have hid myself from you in shame. But you yourself wish to stay and I would not prevent you, if you desired it for your own sake.”

He licked his lips, which suddenly seemed too dry, and the spring air too hot.

“And so I received your message, and I obeyed you,” he finished, breathing in roughly. “And henceforth I would obey you in all things, if you would command me.”

He bowed his head, eyes directed at the floor, but not really looking at anything in particular.

“Thorin, look at me,” said Bilbo, and true to his word, Thorin obeyed, raising his eyes. He found he couldn’t quite make sense of Bilbo’s expression, whether it was sad or merry, but it was impossibly sweet simply to have Bilbo looking at him, and to be asked to look in return.  

“I cannot, how did you phrase it? Command you in all things. You would make me a king, Thorin, and I’m terribly afraid that’s your job. I don’t want it.”

Thorin looked confused, but Bilbo only laughed softly. “Just because I don’t want to be king doesn’t mean I don’t want to come back to Erebor, Thorin. I do want to stay. And if I can help you to be well and happy, if you need advising, well, I’m one of your advisors now, aren’t I? That’s exactly what I’m here for. And I will be here as long as you want me.”

Thorin shook his head slowly. Bilbo had not quite understood him, he thought, even if he had, in some way, accepted the burden Thorin would place upon him. “ _Amrâlimê_ ,” he began, even as he wondered whether Bilbo’s mystery Khuzdul teacher had taught him such words. “I do not know how to make you understand. I would not have you rule my kingdom, Bilbo. But I would have you rule _me_ , for you know me better than I know myself, and only you are brave enough for the task.”

Bilbo cocked his head to the side. “That’s not fair, Thorin,” he said, after a moment’s thought. “Even if it’s just you, and not Erebor as well, I still can’t make all your decisions for you. I want to help you have a home, Thorin, and a future—a happy one. I….” and here Bilbo broke off, a flush stealing quietly over the tops of his cheeks and the tips of his ears. “Well I said I’d be part of it already, didn’t I.” His hands fidgeted with the fur lining of his sleeves. “How would I command you anyway, Thorin, it’s not as if you take advice particularly well.”

“You are not my advisor,” said Thorin simply. “You are my comrade-in-arms, and the light of my forge. You have won your place by my side, and I….” here Thorin too began to stumble, a matching blush creeping over the bridge of his nose. “I would obey you as a soldier obeys his general, Bilbo. I would obey you as a lover obeys his beloved.”

Bilbo squeaked softly: “...as a lover?”

Thorin had kept his distance, but now he walked over to where Bilbo had been seated, at the other side of the table, and held out his hand for Bilbo to take. Bilbo did, his blush intensifying, and for a moment they just stood there, hand in hand.

“I thought you knew how I felt,” said Thorin. “I have accused your people more than once of softness, of frailty, but I know now the hard and everlasting stone you are made of, Bilbo. I do not believe you merely sought what pleasures you could, in our camp. I have worried that my cruelty to you when… when I was unwell…  might have altered your heart… but from all that you have said to me, I can only think that somehow, by the craft of Mahal, it has not.”

Bilbo nodded, his nose wriggling, and his mouth working to say something, but in the end he only answered, “Quite right, Thorin, that’s quite right.”

  
And then it was Bilbo’s turn to flop his head onto Thorin’s chest, almost as broad and strong again as it has been before Azog’s blade had nearly sundered it, and to rest. Thorin, feeling free to touch him at last, pulled Bilbo close against him with one hand and with the other, smoothed out Bilbo’s hair, gently separating out each shining curl, and carefully caressing the tips of his pointed crimson ears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do as Bilbo says. It's a sound plan for life. 
> 
> Neo-Khuzdul Glossary and Notes:  
> ikhazarnâg = a dwarven unit of length equivalent to 3.683 km/2.29 miles. 
> 
> Îmirî, kasamhilîn = “Leave, please”
> 
> Amrâlimê = “love of mine”
> 
> [@pangur_pangur](http://pangur-pangur.tumblr.com/) is still the best beta.


	3. Chapter 3

Thorin returned to Erebor in the evening, leaving half his guards behind to escort Bilbo home posthaste. The hobbit himself returned two days later, having acquired any number of clothes and gifts from the Lakemen in thanks for his efforts both prior to and following the battle, and his retinue found that packing took longer than expected, and that their ponies were considerably more burdened than they had planned. Thorin greeted him formally at the gates, though he made a point of welcoming Erebor’s resident hero back with an embrace that would leave none in doubt of the king’s esteem for his companion. Then he left Bilbo to sort himself out whilst he went about the rest of his duties for the day, although he did make a point of arranging for Bilbo to join him for dinner.

“I suppose this means you’ve not reinstated your ban on my presence,” said Bilbo with a small smile when Thorin opened the door to him. This time, he had knocked, and this time, Thorin had been waiting.  The room that Bilbo entered was warm and tidy, and there was a table laid out with as much of wealth in food as Erebor had to spare, and there was even a small vase filled with crocuses in the center of the table. Thorin took Bilbo’s hand again and simply stood there for a moment smiling down at him before leading him to the table and inviting him to sit.   
  
“There is mead as well,” Thorin offered, whilst Bilbo’s wide and hungry eyes took in the spread before them. But Bilbo nodded in response, and so Thorin poured a goblet for each of them. For all his earlier proclamations to Bilbo in Dale, he was nonetheless not entirely without apprehension in welcoming Bilbo back into his life. The danger that he would mistrust Bilbo again, or worse, hurt him—it was in Thorin’s mind, and perhaps it always would be. But tonight, he would do his best to set it aside.

He was not particularly hungry himself, but he encouraged Bilbo to sample every one of the dishes, and he drank freely of the mead. Between bites, Bilbo chattered about this or that, and Thorin learnt that the Lakemen were doing very well for themselves in Dale, on the whole, much of which could be put down to having enough gold to see themselves through the winter and rebuild. For himself, Thorin’s pleasure was largely in having Bilbo by his side, without apparent fear or sadness, without reluctance or confusion. It was a pleasure he had not had since they reached Erebor.

“You’re quiet,” said Bilbo, startling Thorin from his wine-softened reverie. “I thought perhaps there was something you wanted to say to me?”

Thorin shook his head. “Merely to welcome you, Bilbo,” he replied. “To show you that you are welcome even here.” He smiled softly at Bilbo, rosy with pleasure, and his face shone pink and bronze in the candle light. “How could you not be when I am yours to command?” A flash of worry stole over Bilbo’s face, and Thorin reached out to cover Bilbo’s hand with his own, which quite swallowed it up. “I was wrong before, to shut myself away from you.” He swallowed a bit roughly. “But I have not known you to be inclined to shyness, Bilbo, and I hope you will not be shy now.”

This elicited a low chuckle. “No, not especially,” Bilbo agreed. He laid his other hand over the top of Thorin’s, gave him a squeeze, and then reluctantly tugged both hands away, attacking the food again with good will. (And if Thorin made sure that Bilbo’s goblet of mead was never empty, Bilbo did not complain.) Bilbo’s chatter was less idle, now. He asked what Thorin had done whilst he had been away in Dale, and seemed pleased to hear about the time Thorin had spent thinking.

When he had eaten nearly his fill of food, Bilbo stood and wandered around Thorin’s quarters, inspecting what little Thorin had accrued there, or salvaged from elsewhere in Erebor—he had, after all, spent very little time there. So many of the decorations and books were old pieces, from his grandfather’s time or even earlier, and Thorin obliged Bilbo with tales of what he could remember of his youth, before the dragon came. He found that the stories were less painful than they might have been before, with Erebor reclaimed.

They spent the evening this way, drinking and eating and talking and drinking, the torches eventually burning low. Thorin felt pleasantly warm from the mead and the surprisingly easy company. It was as if Bilbo’s time away from the mountain had cleansed them both, washing away the tension that clung to them from Thorin’s bouts with sickness and injury.

The war finally felt over.

As the hour grew later (and his head fuzzier), Thorin started to stumble over his words a bit. When he yawned, Bilbo took his hand and started pulling him towards the bedroom. He did not protest or make boasts about dwarven fortitude, but rather followed meekly as Bilbo led him.

“My first command,” said Bilbo with a small, self-mocking smile as he pulled back the heavy covers on Thorin’s bed, “Is that you sleep.” Thorin, still yawning, was all too happy to oblige, and though he climbed into bed, he clung to Bilbo’s hand, not wanting to let go just yet.

“You’re welcome here as well,” said Thorin, almost shyly, when Bilbo gave their linked hands a brief, questioning look.

“Tea’s at four, don’t bother knocking?” asked Bilbo, and when Thorin merely peered up at him confusedly, Bilbo leaned down to kiss his forehead, and then brushed his lips over the curve of Thorin’s ear. “Not tonight,” he whispered. “But soon.”

It was as well—Thorin was asleep before Bilbo even reached the door.

\--

Dinner together quickly became a habit, over the next few weeks. Bilbo took little advantage of the power Thorin had given him—although Thorin did find himself, at times, commanded to eat, and then perhaps commanded to sit by Bilbo near the fire, or to lay his head in Bilbo’s lap. It was enough for him to know that Bilbo’s feelings for him did indeed remain constant. Moreover, knowing that Bilbo would speak his mind if he thought Thorin needed something as trivial as food or rest assured him that Bilbo would say _something_ , if there was something else he thought Thorin needed.

Bilbo also refrained from taking advantage of his open invitation to Thorin’s bed, although he did become more inclined to linger. One particularly pleasant evening, Thorin fell asleep with his head on Bilbo’s shoulder, and Bilbo was kind enough not to wake him until it was nearly dawn. He had simply lain his own head down on the arm of the divan, and kept Thorin company until the fire had burnt itself down to smouldering embers. When Thorin eventually roused himself long enough to move, he brought a drowsy Bilbo to bed along with him.

And when he woke again a few hours later, with Bilbo still beside him, he felt like something else had finally been swept away between them, made new and old again, made clean and whole. He felt like he had when they’d begun bedding down next to each other on the road, when his whole being was filled with purpose and Bilbo’s face, his gentle kisses, were the first thing that greeted him in the morning.

The next night, Bilbo simply came to bed with him, and then the night after that, and the night after that. It was sweet, to feel Bilbo’s warmth in bed next to him, and sweeter still to be pillowed on Bilbo’s stomach, or to wrap him up in his broad arms and hold all of him close. And it was a sweet torture to be so close to Bilbo and yet be so restrained, but in this, it was Thorin’s turn to wait until Bilbo was ready, until Bilbo came for him.

The wait was not unbearably long.

To sleep so closely meant neither could help but notice how the other changed in sleep: the softening of the face, the lassitude of the muscles, the excitement of the mind, the arousal of the body. When Thorin woke before Bilbo, he was able to master himself, and he tried to wake first, for he did not like to think of Bilbo contemplating the evidence of his need; he did not want either Bilbo’s disgust or his pity. But in the space between waking and sleeping, the way they were laid them bare to each other did not always seem like such a frightening thing.

When Thorin woke the next morning, it was to nuzzles against his neck and beard, and little kisses pressed against the back of his ear. The rest of Bilbo, however, was carefully arched away from Thorin, and when he stirred—the dim dimensions of the bedchamber slowly coming into focus as he opened sleep-softened eyes—Bilbo’s face filled with heat and colour.

Bilbo began to apologise, but Thorin pressed a kiss to the tip of his nose, and a second between his brows. “I am yours to command even here,” he murmured against Bilbo’s forehead, feeling a low heat creep up his own cheeks, his beard burning. “When I was sick, I was fierce with all I loved, and I fear there is little I can do to make amends to you for that. But I can swear to you that I will do all I can for you now, to love you and _trust_ you.”

He let his eyes fall closed again, let himself rest against his beloved, close enough to breathe Bilbo’s breath as his own. “And to give you whatever pleasures you might want of me. When you’re ready.”

Bilbo crashed into him with a kiss.

The sword that had lain between them in bed was thrown aside. Bilbo was straddling him, embracing him, tugging at his hair and his braids, and clutching at the soft tunic Thorin wore, fingers too inarticulate with want to properly undo it. Thorin broke their kisses just long enough to tear it off with an anguished growl, and then he lay himself utterly defenceless in the face of whatever Bilbo might want of him.

Bilbo wanted to kiss him, it seemed, for he returned to Thorin’s mouth directly, taking kiss after kiss, until Thorin felt he was almost drowning. He wanted skin on skin, and between kisses, Bilbo hurried out of his sleep clothes, almost as if he couldn’t decide whether kissing or nakedness were the more urgent cause.

But soon enough they were both naked, and Bilbo was fair devouring him, mouth and tongue exploring the vast expanse of Thorin’s chest. He laved every scar, and lavished kisses on the great angry mark made only a season past by Azog’s blade. His hands roved even as he kissed, laying claim to Thorin’s strong arms and softening belly, to the slopes of his shoulders and the faint curves of hip and arse, to the long sinews of his thighs. Bilbo seemed to be everywhere on him at once, and Thorin relaxed into it, aching with need as he had been all these weeks, and yet perfectly at peace.

His reverie was interrupted only by Bilbo nipping at his ear, and whispering, “Oil?” Thorin twisted and grabbed a bottle off the bedside table, and made to unstopper it, but Bilbo snatched it away with a kiss and a grin. He unstoppered it himself, then he took Thorin’s hand and coated his fingers liberally with the oil, then guided them towards his arse. Thorin took the implicit suggestion, and slowly began working a finger into Bilbo, first gently massaging the tense muscle, and then pressing one thick finger slowly inside.

The reward for Thorin’s delicate labour was Bilbo’s face, mouth slack and eyes gone distant. Slowly he pressed his finger farther in, crooking it forward until Bilbo’s eyes rolled back and he moaned, fingers clutching absently at Thorin’s chest, blunt nails lightly scratching him. Thorin bit lightly on his lower lip in concentration, working the one finger in and out, and then slowly pressing a second against Bilbo’s entrance, slowly and carefully opening him.

Bilbo pitched forward onto Thorin’s chest, arms too wobbly to support himself against the intensifying sensation. His cock, hard and appreciative, was pressed against Thorin’s belly and he writhed in response to Thorin’s ministrations, grinding himself against Thorin and back onto those fingers, wanting more. Thorin obliged—as he had done, as he always would do where Bilbo was concerned—and continued working his fingers in and out, picking up speed, until he felt Bilbo’s hand close gently around his wrist and tug his own away.

Thorin’s eyes blinked open—he hadn’t even realised he’d closed them, in pleasure and concentration—and Bilbo was looking down at him with wicked fire in his eyes. He toyed with the oil in his hands again, and now he was covering his own hand with it, and reaching back to stroke Thorin’s cock with it. Thorin gasped, his hips arching up so fast and hard that he feared he would throw Bilbo off him. But then Bilbo’s slick hand was back on his chest, pressing him down into the bed, and Thorin felt as if a great weight descended on him, holding him there for his lover’s pleasure.

With Thorin settled, Bilbo raised himself up onto his knees, thighs spread wide. He grasped Thorin by the root, and this time, Thorin was able to control his reactions in spite of his increasingly desperate need. He had thought that he might be content simply with Bilbo by his side, in his life, but he knew now that he needed this as much as he had ever needed anything, as much as he had needed Erebor.

Perhaps he would even have traded Erebor for Bilbo, in his right mind. But he didn’t have to.

And then Bilbo was sinking down onto him, and Thorin lost his ability to do anything other than to take what had at last been given to him, freely and joyfully, to feel and to give pleasure in turn. At another time he might have prided himself on his endurance; he would have wrenched as much pleasure from his beloved’s body as they both could withstand.

But here with Bilbo, pride had no place, and moans were not treasures or prizes to be hoarded. He could not have said if they took their pleasure swiftly or slowly, but really, the pleasure itself was all that mattered, and in the twilight of their room,  Bilbo did not leave him wanting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [@pangur-pangur](http://pangur-pangur.tumblr.com/): still the best beta. 
> 
> This chapter is, perhaps mercifully, free of Khuzdul. 
> 
> Just a tiny bit left! Thank you for being so patient and waiting for the porn.


	4. Coda

Time had little meaning in Thorin’s quarters, in the little space he and Bilbo had carved out for themselves in his bed. Bilbo had once called Erebor a “nasty clockless hole,” and whilst Thorin strongly suspected that Bilbo had since revised his opinion of the mountain, “clockless” indeed seemed apt right now. He could not properly have said how long they spent in bed.

All his senses ran together, overwhelmed with the smell and the taste and the touch of his love, the rhythms of his sleep, and his desire. They made love, and they slept, and periodically someone sent food up to his rooms, and Thorin really couldn’t have said how long they lived in this dream alone. He thought it might even _be_ a dream, for a time. Did he not have to appear in court? Were there not plans to approve, or trade agreements to negotiate?

For the moment, it seemed that there were not. There was only Bilbo, and the countless ways they might relearn each other’s bodies, the vows they might inscribe on the other’s skin. Thorin traced shapes with lips and tongue and fingers. _Hikhthuzul zabirâhbari duzu_ , said his fingers, and _hikhthuzul zâmralizu_. His own flesh was a garden of pink and red and purple love-bites that proclaimed Bilbo’s own feelings in a more hobbitish language, and his fingers caressed them with pride, just as he had done with his first tattoos.

If they ever made more formal vows, Thorin thought, perhaps some of his marks would be flowers.

No idyll lasts forever. Thorin’s was brought to an end by a note from Balin slipped discreetly under their breakfast tray, asking if Thorin might come down to arbitrate a dispute between some of the newly formed guilds regarding the allocation of space.

There was coffee with the note, and Thorin poured himself a cup, black and rich, and then made a face as he drank it. He gazed over to the bed, where Bilbo still drowsed, and after grabbing some sort of flaky pastry off the tray, he resolved to leave the rest for Bilbo.

He ate the pastry.

He went to go wash.

The coffee was cold, but he finished drinking it anyway.

He dressed reluctantly. Everything itched, as if he’d forgotten what clothes felt like, as if his very skin had been remade by Bilbo’s touch, too sensitive for wool and leather. But now was a time to endure, so he did.

Just as he was about to slip out of his chambers, he cast a look back towards Bilbo, sleeping in his bed—their bed—naked and curled up softly, breath slow and even.

Perhaps he could make it back before Bilbo woke up.

Perhaps the dream didn’t have to end just yet.

Perhaps, here, they would always be able to come back to it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is honestly one of the longest things I've ever written for fun, so thank you for sticking with me through my attempts at plot and character development. <3 And yet another round of thanks to [@pangur-pangur](pangur-pangur.tumblr.com), both for excellent editing and skittish author reassurance. My line has always been that I write ~~porny~~ moody one-shots, so while I know in the grand scheme of fic this is still very small, it's big for me!
> 
>  **Neo-Khuzdul Glossary and Notes:**  
>  _Hikhthuzul zabirâhbari duzu_ = “I will always listen to you.”
> 
>  _Hikhthuzul zâmralizu_ = “I will always love you.”


End file.
